


When Words are Inadequate

by Mugatu



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cooking, Jon and Martin learn how fucked up the other's family is, M/M, Scottish Honeymoon, soft boyfriends being soft and happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21825184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mugatu/pseuds/Mugatu
Summary: Meals and the preparation of are, for want of a better word, informative. Fact gathering. A place where they can fill in the gaps of their knowledge of the other.Jon cooks for Martin, and they learn more about each other.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 75
Kudos: 841





	When Words are Inadequate

Jon is fairly certain that he no longer _needs_ food to survive. At the very least not eating won’t kill him the way not taking a statement will. For all that he still feels the physical effects of skipping a meal, the same way he felt the pain of the knife when he tried to cut off his finger. So Jon eats, although since he woke from his coma it’s with no thought to taste.

This changes at Daisy’s cottage. There are no statements to read for the first few weeks, but oddly he doesn’t feel hungry for them. Apparently a meal like Peter Lukas needs time to properly digest. Perversely, his appetite for actual food wakes up for the first time in months. Jon still doesn’t think he _needs_ it, but he finds himself wanting to eat for reasons beyond silencing the ache in his gut.

Martin has a lot to do with it, obviously. Martin needs to eat, and Jon likes to join him. Likes to sit at the cottage's kitchen table that is barely big enough for two and talk. Not that they need a reason to talk; they do it all the time. When they go for hikes. When they’re in bed, right before falling asleep at night. When they work on the Puzzle or play a card game.

So they don’t need _excuses_ to talk; it’s just that different activities are conducive to different conversations. Hikes are best for tough ones, where they have plenty of distractions when finding words become difficult. Conversations in bed tend towards sentimental and besotted, the sort of thing that would feel ridiculous outside that little cocoon of warmth and skin. The Puzzle and any other games are for light, teasing banter and laughter. Obviously there are no hard and fast _rules_ , and there is a great deal of overlap—a difficult conversation made easier with a joke, a saccharine declaration of fondness turning into something deeper, a playful argument turning into kissing and declarations of affection.

Meals and the preparation of are, for want of a better word, _informative._ Fact gathering. A place where they can fill in the gaps of their knowledge of the other. There are things Jon knows about Martin from observation—such as he speaks fluent Polish. Not only does he recognize verbs as obscure as “to cauterize”, he will occasionally talk in his sleep in a mishmash of Polish and English. There are other things he knows about Martin from listening to the tapes—that he had a difficult relationship with his mother, that she _hated_ him for something beyond his control. It’s over breakfast one morning—full English—that Martin tells him his mother migrated from Poland in her twenties.

“After my father left us,” Martin says, “I found…she liked it better, when I spoke to her in Polish.”

There are also things Jon Knows about Martin, although he tries not to. Unwelcome and unearned knowledge still trickles in through the gaps of the door in his mind no matter how hard he tries. This is how he knows that the closest Martin got to approval and affection from his mother was when he spoke to her in her native language. Until her illness worsened and she had to rely on him to interpret at doctor’s visits, after which she grew to resent it.

Jon, in turn, tells Martin a bit about his own family over a lunch of cheese toasties. His parents’ deaths, being raised by his grandmother. 

“I knew some of that,” Martin says when Jon gives him the basics, “I. Erm. I listened to the tape you made. The one about your first Leitner.”

“Oh,” Jon says stupidly, “I…I didn’t know that.” A horrible thought occurs to him, “You didn’t…ah, you didn’t listen to—“

“I listened to all of them,” Martin says, and the expression of sadness in his eyes is unbearable, “Even the ones you hid, when you were investigating Gertrude’s murder. With. Ah. Your ‘supplementals.’”

Jon would give anything for the coffin to magically appear in the kitchen. He’d fling himself into the Buried with no hesitation and a murmur of gratitude. “Martin, I am _so_ sorry, I…” Jon struggles for words, amazed that after hearing some of the things he said Martin is willing to even _talk_ to him, much less still _loves_ him.

“You _were_ a bit of a dick,” Martin says mildly.

“More than a bit,” Jon replies, “I don’t…I don’t have any excuses…” To his horror Martin eyes are glinting with unshed tears. “ _Martin,”_ he says, reaching out, “I didn’t…those things I said…I didn’t _mean_ them, I was just—“

Martin wipes his eyes absently with the back of his hand and takes in a deep, shuddering breath, “ _Jon._ It’s fine.”

“It’s obviously _not,_ ” Jon says, “I mean…look at you—“

Martin squeezes his eyes shut and gives a sad smile, “ _Jon._ Really, it’s…well, it’s not fine, you were a dick. But you should have heard the things I said to Tim and Sasha about _you_. No, I’m just…you know _when_ I listened to them, right?”

Jon starts to say no, then he realizes the obvious answer. If Martin found his backup tapes with his supplementals… “When I was in hospital,” Jon says, “In a coma.”

“When you were _dead_ ,” Martin corrects. He wipes his eyes again, and when he opens them to look at Jon they’re red-rimmed, “Just hearing your voice hurt, didn’t matter what you were saying.”

“Oh,” Jon says, soft, “I’m sorry.”

“Wasn’t _your_ fault,” Martin replies.

“I could’ve…I could’ve woken up sooner…” Jon says, still so soft it’s a wonder Martin can hear him.

“Could you have?” Martin asks.

“I…” Jon trails off. The truth is he isn’t quite sure _how_ he woke up. Or came back, rather. He’s heard the tape of Oliver Banks’ statement, he knows that he made a choice after their conversation, he just doesn’t know the exact shape of it. _Too human to survive, not human enough to die._ Jon still has his doubts over whether it was the _right_ choice, but he can’t bring himself to regret it as he stares at Martin sat across from him, the memory of grief in his eyes.

“You’re here now,” Martin says after a long silence, “That’s all that matters to me.” The corner of his mouth curves into a lopsided smile, “Besides, it was actually funny in a way.” He lowers his voice and adopts an exaggerated version of Jon’s southern accent, “Good lord, Martin brought me tea five time this week and is concerned for my well-being. It must be a sinister plot, and not that he is incredibly gay and in love with me—“

Jon wads his napkin into a ball and tosses it at Martin’s head. He dodges it easily, laughing a little. Jon is unable to hold in his own huff of laughter. They’re quiet again; and Jon asks, “Were you?”

“Was I what?”

“Um. In love with me.”

Martin gives him an incredulous look, “ _Seriously?”_

Jon cheeks heat up, “I just meant…all that time?”

Martin’s face goes thoughtful, and his voice is very soft when he says, “Yeah. Since…I think it _started_ properly when you believed me about Prentiss and let me stay in the archives.” He gives Jon that lop-sided smile again, “Then she attacked, we had our heart-to-heart, and you asked me if I was a _ghost—“_

“Yes Martin, I _remember—“_

 _“_ And after that I was done for, I think,” Martin finishes.

“Shut up,” Jon says affectionately.

Martin does all the cooking at first, in deference to the fact that he’s the one who _needs_ to eat. Therefore Jon has been doing his best not to complain about the meals. Or at least the dinners; he has no issues with eggs and sausage for breakfast or sandwiches for lunch. Those meals are usually quick breaks or fuel for upcoming activities, not events in of themselves. Still, after a week of frozen fish sticks, boiled potatoes, ready meals, and tinned curry Martin notices the way Jon’s mouth turns down before he starts eating.

“Sorry,” Martin says, “There’s not a lot of variety at the Co-op—“

“No!” Jon says hastily, taking a few quick bites of what is truly _vile_ beef curry, “I mean, I don’t even _need_ this. Cook whatever you like, don’t worry about me.”

Martin snorts, “I miss takeaway. Anyway, when I’m at Fort William tomorrow I’ll try and pick up some different kinds.” Jon makes another face before he can stop himself, and Martin just chuckles, “Yeah, I know. Different flavors of shite are still shite.”

Jon opens his mouth to ask why Martin insists on eating things he doesn’t like when understanding washes over him. Where on earth would Martin have learned to cook? He’s been taking care of himself _and_ his Mum since he was far too young to be doing either.

Jon really can be an idiot.

“I can cook,” Jon says.

“You don’t have to—“ Martin starts to say.

“No, I mean…I _know_ how to cook. A few things, at least. I can give you a list to pick up tomorrow, it’s mostly spices so you won’t need to drag everything back on the bus.”

Martin looks at him with unflattering skepticism, “You can cook?”

“You needn’t sound so surprised,” Jon says with a sniff.

“Sorry. Too many memories of having to drag you to lunch to be sure you ate at least _one_ meal a day.”

“Fair point,” Jon says, “I don’t…I don’t really like cooking for myself. It’s annoying and boring, but if I have someone else to do it for…” He trails off as sadness washes over him. He used to love cooking for Georgie, back when they were living together the first year after graduation. “I’d like to cook something for you,” Jon says, “It’s only fair, since you have to do all the shopping.” So far Jon has been avoiding going into the village himself, sticking to hiking trails with Martin when he gets too restless. Easier to avoid the temptation to take someone’s story; despite the small population Jon can _sense_ them out there. Dozens, and that’s not counting the sizable number of tourists that pass through even this late in the year. Besides, they _are_ trying to keep a low profile, and Jon would stand out in Ballachulish even without the scars for the simple fact that he isn’t white.

Martin has gone flush with pleasure, “If…if you’re sure you don’t mind. I’d love for you to cook something for me.” Jon really is a terrible boyfriend, he should have offered sooner. Martin isn’t used to be looked after, and is always surprised and touched when Jon does even the smallest thing for him.

Impulsively Jon leans over and gives Martin a kiss. He regrets it immediately; the wretched tinned curry tastes even worse secondhand. He’d feel guilty for the way he recoils if it weren’t for the fact that Martin looks just as repulsed. Their eyes meet; and then they’re both laughing, loud and hearty. Jon has laughed more in this past week than he has since he left Oxford; and Martin might never have laughed this much. Jon could Know if he tried, but he restrains himself.

***************************************

Martin sets out immediately after breakfast the following morning, hoping to catch the first bus to Fort William. Before he leaves Jon scribbles out a list of ingredients: _Garlic paste. Ginger paste. Turmeric powder. Red chili powder. Ginger nob. Yogurt. Cinnamon sticks. Cumin seeds. Coriander seeds. Thai chili peppers. Naan. Rice. Onions._

“Right,” Martin says, fidgeting nervously, “What should I do if I can’t find all this stuff?”

It’s Jon’s turn to fidget, with guilt rather than nerves, “Ah. Well. I know we agreed I should try not to…to _see_ things…”

“ _Jon,_ ” Martin says, sounding exasperated yet fond.

“There’s a M&S a few stops past the bus station,” Jon blurts out, unable to stop himself, “They have all of these ingredients in stock, if you have trouble finding any ask for Maryam, she’s working today.” Martin gives Jon a classic _I’m not mad, just disappointed_ face. “I can’t _actually_ help it all the time!” Jon stammers, “I couldn’t remember the exact ingredients, or the recipe, and there’s no signal—“

Martin just sighs and shakes his head. He gives Jon a kiss on the cheek, “I’ll be back in a few hours. Try to stay safe at least until I get back. And _don’t_ See anything.”

Martin isn’t gone very long—it’s only half an hour’s bus ride to Fort William and his errands aren’t very time consuming—but Jon is practically clawing the walls with boredom by the time he returns.

“Sorry,” Martin says as they unpack the groceries, “I’ll download some new books to my tablet my next trip to the village—“

“It’s fine,” Jon says, “I mean, the book situation is, at least. I just. Couldn’t concentrate.” Jon had been preoccupied thinking about _cooking,_ and at this point in his life he’s accepted he’s no good at moderating his attention. “Find everything alright?”

“Yes. I got Maryam to help me after all. She was quite lovely. Asked what I was making and I said I had no idea.”

Jon smiles, “Well, this is a good base for lots of different dishes. Tonight I was thinking of aloo keema.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Martin says, “Can’t wait to try it, though.”

“Well,” Jon says, feeling shy, “I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Martin says, smiling and putting his arms around Jon’s shoulders, “Few hours before I’ll be hungry. Do you want to go for a walk, or work on the Puzzle for a bit?”

“None of the above,” Jon says. The weather is dreary even for the Highlands, and he’s decided to burn the Puzzle the next time Martin’s out. It’s a one thousand piece grotesquery of the surgeon’s photo of the Loch Ness Monster that Martin bought half as a joke. Each piece a varying shade of grainy grey, and the temptation to just _See_ where they fit is overwhelming. Martin claims that’s why he bought it, to give Jon practice with _control._ But Jon knows that Martin _mostly_ bought because he enjoys watching Jon get worked up.

“Movie?” Martin asks, “I have some on my laptop. Or we can make out on the couch some.”

Jon gives this the careful consideration it deserves, “Make out on the couch.”

“That was going to be my vote as well.”

****************************************************

Aloo keema is fairly simple to make, requiring only a single pot, and aside from the spices the only ingredients really are minced meat, onions, and potatoes. Jon assigns Martin potato peeling and chopping while he takes care of the onions and measures out the spices. As they work Martin asks Jon where he learned to cook like this, “Surely not your grandmother?”

Jon chuckles, “No. I mean, she taught me the _basics_ , like how to do a roast chicken and pasta and that sort of thing. But salt and pepper were the only spices she ever heard of. I learned when I was at university. Joined the Oxford Pakistan Society first term and lasted just long enough to learn a few recipes.”

Martin is quiet, then, “Not…not from your Mum’s family, then?”

Jon is annoyed that the onions he’s chopping are making his eyes watery, he doesn’t want Martin to think he’s upset about this, “I’ve. I’ve actually never met any of them.”

“Oh,” Martin says. He doesn’t ask for details, but Jon finds himself giving them regardless.

“They didn’t approve of my father,” Jon says, “Mind you, _his_ family weren’t too keen on her. Or me.” A bit of an understatement. He explains to Martin his father had an older brother and an older sister with children of their own, and that he only saw his cousins during awkward Christmas dinners. Up until the year his cousin Stephen called him “Paki brat” during an argument. Jon tells Martin how the table went silent, how all the adults exchanged loaded glances. Except for Jon’s grandmother—she simply stared at Stephen with shocked anger before cracking him sharply across the mouth.

“She didn’t hit him very hard, but she drew blood,” Jon says, “One of her rings turned around so the stone was on the inside of her hand. My uncle Charles was outraged, and my grandmother refused to apologize.”

“Good for her,” Martin says with feeling.

“Stephen was only twelve,” Jon says, “He probably heard it from my uncle.”

“He still deserved it,” Martin insists, “And your gran should’ve slapped both his parents as well.”

“Well, relations grew rather chilly after that,” Jon continues. Mercifully he’s finished chopping onions, and just as mercifully Martin doesn’t stop to hug him. Martin has a habit of doing that whenever he learns certain bits of Jon’s past. It’s usually welcome—hugs from Martin are in general—but right now he doesn’t want to make a fuss over it. He adds oil to the pot and turns on the heat.

“I’ve never met my cousins,” Martin says after a long pause, “My mother had three brothers back in Poland. She’d ring them from time to time, but she never talked much about them to me. And none of them helped support us when she got sick.”

Jon is dumping his load of onions and whole spices into the pot as Martin tells him this. The ingredients hit the heating oil and sizzle faintly. A rich scent wafts up from the pot, and at almost the same time Jon _Knows_ why Martin’s uncles didn’t help. He throws Martin a guilty look, the other man is frowning down at the potatoes and seems unaware of Jon’s turmoil. At least until he glances up and meets Jon’s eyes, “Oh. Right.”

Jon turns his attention back to the onions, stirring them with a wooden spoon. The silence is awkward, and Jon blurts out, “Do you want me to tell you?”

“No,” Martin says immediately, “I mean…I have my suspicions. But it doesn’t change anything one way or the other.”

Jon nods. It’s a depressingly familiar story—Elena Krysiak married Gregory Blackwood and moved to Britain against her family’s wishes and warnings. Only for Gregory Blackwood to walk out on her and their son when she became ill. Her family _might_ have helped her if she had humbled herself, but she was too proud to admit she’d made a mistake. Jon feels a wave of anger at Martin’s entire family—his father for leaving, his mother for placing the burden of her care on her son then hating him for it, and his extended family for being too stiff-necked to help her unconditionally. There’s more, a lot more, and he slams the door in his mind shut before it can come trickling in.

“Hey,” Martin says, laying a hand on Jon’s shoulder, “It’s alright. I know you can’t always control it.”

“Well, it’s the second time today,” Jon says stiffly. They’ve _talked_ about it, of course. Talked about it in circles. Martin tells him he knows Jon can’t always help it, and Jon still feels guilty regardless. And…weirdly cheated, at times. There are things about Martin he wants to know, but he only if Martin is willing to share them. He doesn’t want to just _K_ _now,_ and he doesn’t want to accidentally force Martin to tell him.

“I’ve decided to give you a pass on the first one,” Martin says lightly, “Because this smells amazing already, so it's worth it. I’m starving.”

“We’ve got another half hour at least before this is ready. You could’ve told me to start sooner,” Jon says, forcing his own tone of voice to be just as light.

“You were being very distracting,” Martin says, giving Jon a lopsided smile. “There. Done with the potatoes. Anything else I can help with?”

Jon shakes his head, “It’s pretty simple. Just keep me company?”

“Easy enough,” Martin replies.

****************************************************

An hour later Martin is flushed and his forehead is shiny with sweat. “I’ll make it less spicy next time,” Jon says apologetically.

“Don’t you dare,” Martin replies emphatically, mopping up some of the juices on his plate with a bit of naan. “Seriously Jon, this is amazing.”

Jon puffs up with pleasure. He knows anything he makes is an improvement over the tinned curry and frozen fish sticks they’ve been consuming, but that isn’t hard. Seeing that Martin is genuinely enjoying the meal in of itself—and not just because it could be worse—is very gratifying. Martin even goes back for seconds, and Jon thinks his head might swell up so much with satisfaction it’ll go floating off over the Highlands. When Martin can’t eat any more he pushes his plate away, leans back in his chair and closes his eyes with a contented sigh. His face is red and his curls are dark with sweat and Jon loves him.

As soon as Jon has that thought the door to his mind cracks open and a trickle of knowledge comes in. He Knows that his mother made this same dish for his father, and his father looked the same afterward, flush and sweating with a satisfied smile on his face. That his mother beamed at him with just as much pride and love as Jon feels now.

Jon’s eyes are hot, and he has to lower them to his own empty plate and blink until the feelings pass. After a moment he stands, gathering up his and Martin’s plates.

Martin protests immediately, “You did the cooking, I can wash up.”

Jon shakes his head, “I’ve got it.” Martin deserves to be fussed over, Martin deserves to sit at the table while his food digests with that contented smile on his face.

“We can do it together,” Martin says stubbornly, “I’ll wash and you dry. Faster.”

It’s no use to arguing, Jon just sighs and lets Martin fill the sink with water. It doesn’t take very long with the two of them working together. Especially since they spend the entire time talking, and Jon learns several new things about Martin. His worst job (aside from archival assistant) was at a dodgy restaurant that would fire the entire staff at the end of the day then rehire them the next in order to avoid paying taxes. Jon also learns that Martin likes to sing cheesy pop songs under his breath while he works, and that he forgets his hands are soapy when he pushes his hair out of his eyes, leaving a little puff of suds on his forehead.

Jon dries each dish carefully, already planning tomorrow night’s meal and anticipating what new things he’ll learn.

**Author's Note:**

> I got the recipe for aloo keema from teaforturmeric.com. All mistakes are my own.


End file.
